


Art of Life

by To_Shiki



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Butt Plugs, Chastity Device, Cock Cages, Come Inflation, Come Swallowing, Conditioning, Drugged Sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gaslighting, Implied Mpreg, Intersex, M/M, Multi, Nipple Clamps, Object Insertion, Piercings, Spitroasting, Trespasser Bad Ending, Whipping, cock plug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 13:55:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5166326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/To_Shiki/pseuds/To_Shiki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Iron Bull's betrayed the Inquisition and more importantly:  Dorian.  He was left for dead and the was the Inquisition's first mistake.  The second was not checking up on how their resident mage was taking it.  As he slowly loses his mind he turns to Herah. </p>
<p>That was the second mistake.</p>
<p>One that will turn things in the Qun's favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art of Life

**Author's Note:**

> Where did this come from? The terrible depths of my brain. Be warned. Hissrad's going to do what he has to, what he's been doing since latching onto the necromancer, to have a powerful mage by his side. Rape/Non-con listed to be safe.

As soon as they’d returned to Skyhold, minus the shackled traitor who’d escaped while they were distracted, Dorian Pavus had stormed up to their shared chambers.  He ignored everyone calling out to him, pity dripping off their tongues.   He couldn’t even bring himself to turn to look at Herah.  Just the sight of her horns, her grey skin.

The anger was still too close to the surface.  He didn’t want to hurt her with the words swirling behind his teeth. 

There were some things he needed to handle privately before he can rejoin his friends.

First the door’s bolted shut against unwanted sympathies.  Then a roaring fire lit with a swipe of his arm.  It burns brighter and hotter than even Dorian’s comfortable with.  But it needs to be.  It has to destroy things he’d hoped to hold on to forever.

He closes his eyes against the brightness, raising a hand briefly.  All he can see now is the Iron Bull, Hissrad, giving an empty apology.  Him attacking Herah.  Dorian’s staff, polished blade sticking out of his side.  Bleeding out like a stuck pig.  Them returning after completing their mission to find his body gone, blood messily wiped up.

The Bul-  Hissrad’s hand reaching out for hi-

Quickly he turns from the fire, opening his eyes to their mixed belongings.  He needs to get started.  Hopefully he doesn’t find the bottles of wine the- he always hides away for him.

Small knick knacks Hissrad had brought him, “reminded me of you”, went first, the fire hungrily turning them to ash under the grate.  He crouches down, watching the ash float chaotically to the bottom before moving on.  A small, detached and vain, part of him wept inside as he threw two as yet unworn sets of robes into the fire.

A new set of walking boots, lined in the softest nug fur around.

The jars of hair wax and combs.

The very clothes and boots he was wearing now.

He crouches before the fire, eyes painfully adjusted to the illumination, dressed only in the jewelry the Ir-  Hi _ssrad_ adorned him with every morning.

Multiple gold earrings and jeweled studs in his ears.  The gold septum, bleeding a little when it comes out.  Weighted clamps at each nipple stretching them out no more.  The barbell at his bellybutton that made his breath hitch every time it was pulled on.  Various bejeweled rings on his fingers and toes, each time they were put on they’d be sucked until the spit almost had them slipping off.

Into the fire.  All of it.  He clenches his fist, calling on his magic to burn hotter, melting it into a formless lump clinging to the warping grate.

The only ones left now…

Hands, ringless with barely visible tan lines, cover his crotch in mock modesty.  The only presents left, the only things left that his _Amatus_ had graced him with he’s never been allowed to remove without permission.  He has to fight not to look over his shoulder as he fingers the studded leather. 

He’s not here.  He’s never coming back.  He _lied to you_ , he whispers viciously to himself.

Under his fingers the leather‘s soft, well cared for and lightly lined to protect his skin from chafing.  Metal studs along the middle acting as decoration along the thick band.  It rests low on his hips, tight, holding him in place until the Bull was ready for him.

He’s so proud of himself when he burns it away, voice steady as his magic frees him from the trusting harness.  The Iron Bull had been so proud when Dorian had first told him the only times he removed it was when the privy called.

The leather goes up in smoke and ash while the metal bits clink to the bottom.  The next part won’t be so easy.

The metal’s warm under his fingertips.  Always is, wrapped so tight around his flesh.  The cock cage keeps his dick permanently curved down, forcing him to squat while the Iron Bull stands over him.  At the end a ring hangs out, ready to be used to pull out the short sound with its piss hole.  At least Hissrad was merciful in that aspect.

Breath quickening he hooks his pinky through the ring.  There’s no build up here, no filthy words to distract him.  Slowly but quickly he pulls it out.  Even though he _knows_ it won’t help he drops the sound and grasps his cock in both hands.  The gold casing, intricate vines and leaves once enchanting now vile, prevents him from doing any good.  But he can pinch the head of his cock, a futile attempt at trying to shrink the sudden gaping hole left behind.

Breathing hard through his nose he struggles to his feet.  Both hands still holding himself he shuffles over to the bedside table.  Inside’s the key he needs.

When the cock cage first went on, the Iron Bull has smugly claimed it could only come off when he unlocks it.  The key swinging lazily around the end of a finger as he watched Dorian try to magic it off.

In the end it took nearly burning his dick off before he admitted defeat.  The Iron Bull had celebrated by pushing in the cock plug.  Then, of course, since he’d used magic in the bedroom the Bull had turned him over and smacked his ass until it almost blistered from the heat and friction of the blows.

Frantically Dorian searches for the key to the enchanted cock cage.  He knows he saw it go back in the drawer before they left with Herah.

Before everything noticeably went to shit.

Can feel it… There!  There it is!

He quickly grabs it and holds it to his mouth, sighing in relief.  A few frantic heartbeats later and he’s sliding it into the lock and turning.  A click and _pop_ and he’s free!  He has to dribble some oil from the table on to smoothly slide it off.  But it’s off, falling to the rug with a muffled thud.  One more piece and he’ll be free of the physical claims on his body.

Cock cage, key, and oil in hand he goes back to the fireplace.  Kneeling down, knees spread, he slicks up his fingers.  Sweat’s rolling down his body as he prepares to pull out the final piece.

Tired of hearing Dorian whine about how long they’d take to loosen his asshole to take the Iron Bull’s thick cock, he’d come up with a more permanent solution. 

During a rare week of peace and quiet the Iron Bull had tied him to the bed in a hotel in Val Royeaux.  It took half the week until he could slide the biggest plug, a hair’s width smaller than the Qunari’s cock, in with little resistance.  The rest of the week was spent trading it out with the Bull’s cock, fucking him until he passed out multiple times a day.

Now it was time to burn that painfully pleasurable week in the flames born of the very magic his ex-lover despised.  Some oil around the rim, a little wiggling, some more oil along the shaft.  He has to fuck himself with it a couple times before it slides out of him.

Just like with his cock his asshole’s left gaping wide.  He tries to clench down, fingers tracing the stretched out rim, gingerly.  He can barely feel his fingers trailing along his hole, nerves wrecked.

_Creeeak_

His whole body freezes, muscles locking, lungs tightening as he strains to hear.

The wind whistling over the opening in the ceiling.  Curtains fluttering quietly in the breeze.  Fire crackling softly.  Heart thudding in his chest as he struggles to calm down.

‘It was just the wind,’ he tries to assure himself.  ‘Just the wind pushing against something.’  One deep inhale.  Two.  On the third he slowly hunches over before standing, running his hands over his body.  He marvels at the lack of metal as he makes his way back to the bed.

He’s completely bare now.  It’s such a foreign sensation.  Even when he bathed he was made to wear the cage and plugs, the clamps on his nipples so the soaking could hopefully stretch them out more.

The Bull – ‘HISSRAD!’ his mind screams at him – always enjoyed playing with his manly breasts, nowhere near as impressive as his own.  Suckling and nipping at them.  Cupping and squeezing his pecs in imitation of playing with a woman’s bosom.

“Get you some proper titties and we could make you into a half decent Tama.  You’d be good in that role, despite what you claim,” he’d say before spreading his legs and filling him near to bursting.  Hands always rubbing and stroking his distended stomach as they try to catch their breath. 

Any protest, any claim that he’s lacking the parts, would be brushed off with the idle comment of “I’m sure there’s magic for that.  Magic’s all right if it means you’ll be safe as a breeder and caretaker than on the front lines.”

He tries to clench the muscles around his asshole.  The scare from earlier had helped marginally.  Lingering traces of oil and come trickle down his thighs.  Reaching back he can easily shove three fingers up to the last knuckle.  Removing them quickly he grabs one of his own blankets, ready to wrap himself in it and sneak his way back to his own rooms.

A bottle thuds down onto the rug.

Loosely draping himself in the blanket he awkwardly flops to the floor next to it.  The wine’s one of his favorites, half empty from before.  When the Bull had welcomed him back from Tevinter.

Now’s a good a time as any to finish it.

The heady rush from guzzling every last drop is a welcoming distraction.  He can _feel_ it soaking into his very veins, going to his head and then straight down to his belly.  His heart skips a beat before picking up.  Licking his lips, getting that stray drop leaves him gasping as he remembers why it was half full.

The Iron Bull had welcomed him back to Skyhold publicly hugging him so hard he feared his ribs would break.  Privately…  Privately he’d hand fed him choice bits of meats and fruits, thick breads and smoky cheeses.  The wine, oh the wine, he would take sips and then lean down and seal their lips together, letting the red wine into the mage’s mouth to drink from him.  He would wait until Dorian had sucked his tongue into his mouth, getting as much as he could, before pulling away for another mouthful.

The phantom sensation of calloused fingers fucking the warmed oil into him as a rough tongue licks up wine from him stomach has him wiggling in the blanket and moaning.  It falls away as he trails his hand over his body, retracing the Bull’s path.  His head jerks back as he roughly pinches and pulls on his nipples.  He tries to bear down on the thick cock that should be thrusting bruisingly hard into him. 

A flush spreads down from his cheeks to across his chest as he stuffs fingers in his mouth, lewdly sucking on them.  His other hand, free of the empty bottle, moves south, fingertips skirting around the rim of his quivering hole before slip-

_Thunk!_

A glass bottle rolling into the side of his face has him jerking in surprise.  Mouth open, panting hard, spit-slicked fingers wrap around the neck of the wine bottle.  As he drinks from it, this one barely touched, dry fingers finally press into him.

They go in easily, his so much smaller than the Bull’s.  The tugging as the dry skin catches has him moaning around the bottle.  Liquid gone he finds a new use for it.  Something he never would have done before laying with the Iron Bull.

The floor’s too hard so he clumsily crawls up onto the bed, blanket forgotten.  Ass up in the air while he braces his weight on his elbows and knees, hands fumbling as he slicks up the wide end of the bottle.  So many times he’d gotten drunk by the Bull upending a bottle directly into his ass, both enjoying the sloshing noises as the Bull fucked it deeper into him.

It was so much easier with another set of hands.  He does what he can to make do before the surprisingly strong alcohol leaves him passed out and unsatisfied.  Shoulders to the bed, arms straining to maneuver the slippery bottle.  So much easier with a set of large grey hands.  One holding his hip while the other expertly pushes it in.

“Amatus,” he whines as the bottle slips out of his grip.  All the blood rushing to his head, muffling the world around him, letting him easily slip into the past.  Maybe the memories will do just as well?

The shift of the mattress as the Bull climbs up behind him.  The bottle picked up and one edge rubbing against his rim.  A warm hand, huge and strong, gripping his hip so he can’t wiggle.  “Amatus,” slips past his lips again as the bottle keeps teasing his stretched out hole, barely pushing in before resuming its gentle rubbing.

“Shhh, Kadan,” the Bull whispers.  The hand leaves his hip and he twitches in shock as the cold oil drips off the bottle and into his hole.  “Just needed some more slick for the job.  You’re always so needy, don’t ever grease it up enough to not hurt yourself.”  More dribbles around and into him, the bottle helping ease its way in.  With a plop the empty vial of oil lands next to Dorian’s head.  It’s the only warning he gets.

The hand’s back at his hip, bruisingly tight, and he sighs in relief.  The glass is warm from the Bull slicking it up.  The wide end of the bottle finally pushes in, not as thick as the Bull’s cock, but hard and unyielding.  Just what he needs after everything.  In and out, deeper with each pass.  The Bull’s perfect for this, pushing it right to Dorian’s limits.  The flat bottom brushes right against the small bundle of nerves.

As soon as Dorian jolts from the pleasure the Bull pulls the bottle out and thrusts back in brutally.  He slams the bottle against the spot, growling in pleasure at Dorian’s breathy whines.  Between his legs his cock twitches, body warring with its training to harden even though he wasn’t given permission.  A warm chuckle from above has him grasping at the sheets.

“Aw, my poor Kadan.  Would you like to come from this?”  The angle changes but not the intensity of the thrusts.  Pleasure’s slowly shifting towards pain.  “Well?”

“Nooo!”  Drool’s soaking into the sheets, kohl smearing over fabric and skin from sweat and tears.  Air huffing out in short bursts he forces his cock to soften, not wanting to be denied release for misbehaving.

The bottle slams back against his prostrate.  “Good boy, Kadan.  Good boy.  You know you can’t come unless it’s my cock.”  The Iron Bull fucks him with the bottle for a long time, shifting the angle whenever Dorian lost the battle and his cock started to rise.   Only once his thighs trembled continuously did he pull it out and replace it with his substantial cock.

No oil, just what was left from the bottle, thick beads under the skin of his cock dragging along Dorian’s inner walls.  He fucks into his mage, hands tight on his hips and heavy balls slapping loudly in the large room.  Dorian’s wails muffled by the bedding as he struggles to clench down on the fat cock pounding him within an inch of his life.

“Please, Amatus, _please!_ ” he cries.  Electricity running up and down his spine as the blunt head slams into the nerves.

The Bull lands five solid smacks to each ass cheek before he growls out, “Pleasure yourself, Kadan.”

Dorian doesn’t waste a second in getting a hand underneath him.  His cock responds quickly in his grasp, precome leaking incessantly from the slit.  Pain from the dry grip did nothing to deter him from getting right to the edge of his impending orgasm.  He just needed…

His world spun as the Bull withdrew and flipped him over. Suddenly he’s on his back, legs spread wide, and the Bull’s cock slamming back into his ass.  Thick grey arms bracketing his torso as the rough thrusting returns, the Bull grunting from exertion above him.  Sharp teeth clamp down on a bare nipple and Dorian’s close to screaming.

Cock purple, tears streaming down his cheeks, head spinning from drink and mixed sensations, the Bull finally takes pity on him.  A hand squeezes around his own and a deep voice rumbles, “Come, Ataashi!”  As his orgasm washes over him he tenses all over, tightening on the Bull’s cock.

He finally passes out as he’s splattering himself with his own seed, barely feeling the Bull finishing inside him.  A thought flutters by, of needing to clean himself up so he doesn’t roll over and stick to the sheets, but he lets it go.  His gaping asshole twitches as fluids leak out, hand lazily moving to slide in before the world dissolves into the Fade.

'~*~’

The morning comes too soon.  Light’s streaming in from the window and ceiling, assaulting him on two fronts.  Burying his head under the pillow he sighs as he realizes he did indeed sleep on his stomach.  The sheets are bound to be stuck to him.  He sleeps another hour just to avoid having to deal with the prickly process of separating while hungover.

A harsh pounding on the door wakes him, matching the tempo in his head.

“Dorian!  The Inqui- Herah wishes to see you when you’re presentable!” someone hollers through the thick wood.  His brain’s too loud right now to care who, so long as they don’t try to come in to actually get him up.

When they start repeating the message he reaches down and chucks the empty bottle in the vicinity of the door.  The shattering glass aggravates his headache and the messenger gets the hint.  Their thudding footsteps are out of beat to his head, leaving him reeling as he slowly sits up, hand going to pull the stuck sheet off.

It’s not there.  He looks down in confusion.

The bed sheet lays on the bed innocently, a shade lighter than what he vaguely remembers from last night.  Running a hand over his chest proves that he’s clean, skin oiled down and soft.  Brushing against the metal on his nipple has both hands on his body in disbelief.

There on both nipples are the clamps he’s _positive_ he threw into the fire.  Bellybutton, nose, ears.  All the rings and studs back where the Iron Bull had pierced him.  Both eyes lock onto the wall across from him, not daring to look down as his palms slowly slide down to his waist.

There right at his hips, partially covering the handprints, is his leather harness.  He has to look down.  Has to see that he’s just imaging things, too long of wearing it tricking his hungover brain into thinking that it’s still there.

His vision blurs as tears gather in the corner of his eyes.  It’s there, worn brown leather and shiny metal studs.  Running his hands behind him he can feel the flat buckles holding it all together.  Sliding to the floor he barely feels the impact on his knees.   The motion pulls a despairing whimper from him as it jostles the plug in his ass.  Hands in front now he feels along the edges of the harness, easily feeling the cock cage once again locked on.

Naked save for his jewelry and harness he crawls over to the brightly burning fire.  There in the fireplace the wood crackles pleasingly, dark smoke rising up through the chimney.  Nothing but ash beneath the grate.

Actual wood and not magic-fueled fire.

No warped metal.

Clamps stretching out the skin around his nipples as he stares in disbelief on his hands and knees.  He shifts and an empty wine bottle goes rolling along the floor.  Turning his head he sees the floor littered with them, the amount he used to consume before meeting the Iron Bull.  Had it all just been a drunken hallucination?

The thought does much in clearing his head.  Stumbling to his feet he dresses quickly in one of the spare robes he’d gotten in the habit of leaving behind.  ‘Maybe Herah knows something?’ he hoped. 

In his hurry he failed to notice all the other items he’d thought he burned last night still missing.

'~*~’

All throughout the day he wanted to bring up last night with his companions.  To ask Herah if she knew about there being even the slightest chance that the Iron Bull still lived.  Ask Sera if she saw him drinking anything before going up to the room.  Ask Leliana if she or her spies saw anything suspicious last night or this morning.

But every time he tried to open his mouth he could feel the clamps shifting under his robes.  Feel the harness biting into his skin from the tense position he was standing in.  Feel his breath skimming over the septum back to slightly ruffle his moustache. 

Each time he stumbled over his words.  Each time he straightened his back and walked away, feeling the butt plug move just enough to make itself noticed with each step.

The only one who seemed concerned about him was Herah.  Everyone else was worried about her.  About how she’s staying to her chambers or the throne room, not venturing out like she used to.

“You know you can talk to me about it, right, Dorian?” she’d asked, consoling hand on his shoulder.  When he stayed silent she pulled him to her scantly covered chest and held him there.  While it stirred nothing for him sexually it was still a comforting embrace.  He’d wound his arms around her waist when she’d added, “He betrayed me, too.  I had thought of him…  He was important to me, too.”

Warm breasts on either side of his face did little to hide the shaking in her voice.

“Come to me.  When you’re ready.”

Instead of finding answers he buried himself in the library.  A handful of minutes lost to the lines on the pages before a word or phrase reminded him of the large Qunari he loves.  Loved.  History mentioning the battles on Seheron dragging him back to when they played him as the evil magister caught by the beastly warrior Ben-hassroth.  Fashion and he’s back to the dance in Halamshiral admiring how tight the Bull’s dress jacket had been.  Varric’s trashy novels and he’s left gasping in his chair, reacting to the memories of all their quick trysts in public.

Returning to his own room above the garden he lit the fire with his magic.  In went his jewelry and harness.  The plugs and cage turning to a satisfying pile.  Over the chamber pot he went when the consequences of always wearing such a large plug caught up with him. 

Finally empty, walking with his thighs clenched together until his asshole shrunk back, he goes over to his bed.  Laying down on his stomach he reaches underneath the bed to grab at the bottle he knows is down there.  He wipes away the cobwebs clinging to it with the sheet, uncaring if the creator is still attached. 

He lets it balance against the bedframe, wiggling it back and forth.  There’s at least three more under his bed, all waiting for him to pop the seal and drink himself to sleep.  The fading sunlight has it glowing in his hand as he contemplates.  If he drinks it all will he wake up as he is now?  Or will this night have been a delusion as well?

He was afraid to sleep when night fell.

Three empty bottles later and that fear was washed away.

'~*~’

The next morning he awoke, body and head aching.  Four empty wine bottles, bitter tang on his lips and tongue.  He didn’t start crying, gasping sobs, until his hands were rubbing along the familiar lines of his harness.  Legs spread so he could reach between them to press against the strap holding the large butt plug in place. 

Sobs turn to near hysterical laughter as he realizes his ass will never tighten at this rate.  A deep, dangerous voice washing over him, commanding him to move this way, one more swallow, touch himself like that.

The familiar voice echoes in his head all day long.

'~*~’

He spends the day clearing his room of all the wine he’s stashed away.

Josephine is thrilled when she retires for the night and finds several very expensive bottles left on her dresser.  Cullen has a smirk n his lips when he sees a bottle of Sun Blond Vint-1 and a wine glass on top of all the reports he’s left off for the day.  The Chargers, hurting and angry at the deception, gladly relieve him of the multiple bottles of cheap wine he’d bought and hidden when first arriving at Skyhold so long ago.

That night he falls asleep, completely sober, in his own bed.  No metal on his body and covered in a heavy sleep shirt and pants.  A fire burning warmly in the fireplace.

'~*~’

The next morning he wakes, not hungover, in his own bed.  Gold decorating his lithe body and covered in nothing but a thin sheet.  A fire burning warmly in the fireplace.

'~*~’

A week passes, going to sleep free of the Iron Bull’s physical markings and waking with them right where they belonged, before he finally breaks. 

Keeping his head high and the tears at bay he stoically marches to Herah’s private chambers.  A polite knock and he’s welcomed in by a weary voice.  With the world at peace Herah’s been keeping to herself more and more, staying up late hunched over her papers doing who knows what.  Not even Commander Cullen, the man’s she’s not-so-secretly carried a crush on knows what’s going on in that sharp mind of hers.

Closing the door behind him he leans against it until she looks up from hastily gathered papers.  When she sees him, her face brightens just a fraction before beckoning him over.  She doesn’t stand when he gets close, just pushes her chair away from the desk so there’s enough room for him.  The small smile, the crinkling at the corners of her eyes undoes him.

Falling to his knees he weeps into her knees.  Carefully she spreads them and tugs him closer so he can comfortably sob onto her meaty thigh instead.  One hand’s carding through his hair as the other rubs up and down his back.  He can’t hear the soft shushing noises she makes or the humming that starts up when it fails. 

His knees ache, abs hurting from the heaving gasps, her thigh is covered in tears and snot when he finally pulls away to collect himself.

“I’m sor-“

“None of that now,” she bides him.  Her hands cup his red splotchy face gently.  “You have nothing to be sorry for, Ataashi.”  She wipes his tears away with her thumbs, bending down to nose at his beauty mark playfully.

The action startles a watery laugh out of him.  He grips on to her knees as she pulls away to grab a handkerchief off her desk.  His head’s throbbing from the release.  Haltingly he tells her of his nights not matching his mornings.  How he _knows without a doubt_ that he’s destroying what little hold the Iron Bull, Hissrad, still has on him.  How he wakes with them right back in place.

All the while she calmly wipes his face clean.  Makes him pause in his story to blow his nose.  When his face is clean and he’s run out of words she speaks. 

“Are you still wearing them?”

The firm tone has him answering quickly.  “Yes,” he sniffles.  “I came here as soon as I woke.”

“Show me.”  At the scandalized look he shoots her she chuckles.  “Maybe your mind and body are playing tricks on you,” is her reasoning.

Years of wearing them, even while in Tevinter, had her claim sounding rational.  Standing on legs full of pins and needles he backs away a couple steps and starts to disrobe.  He wants to feel awkward about it, undressing in front of a female friend, no matter how close.  But something about her _grey skin, large horns, authoritative voice_ has his hands hurriedly releasing straps and buckles. 

Bare feet show off the thin bejeweled rings on his toes.  Robes pooling around them revealing the swinging weights on his dusty nipples and piercing in his bellybutton.  A hesitation, hands on the waistband of his leggings, before her encouraging nod pushes them to his ankles.  At her motioning he steps out of them and goes once more between her spread legs.

Strong, calloused hands rub up his thighs, stopping at the leather around his hips.  Tucking in under she uses it to pull him back down to his knees.  He catches himself, hands on her thighs.  Fingers pull on the weights and he squirms, mouth hanging open as he’s left gasping from the treatment.  Leaving them behind, she moves them up to his neck, closing briefly around, before thumbing at the ring in his nose.  Both ears squeezed and rubs at the gold there.

“Hissrad was right,” she breathes reverently.  “You’re even more beautiful on your knees.”

All he can do is stare at her face in shock.  At the pleasure clearly written across it as one hand leaves his face to fondle her large tit.  His gaze is redirected to her groin as she forces his head down.  He’s just opening his mouth to gasp in shock when she jerks him forward.

The position has him mouthing at the growing bulge under her loose pants.  He can’t pull away, can’t use his magic in fear of the repercussions they would earn him.  Through the fabric he can feel her _his?_ member growing.  The hand at the back of his head gives him no room to maneuver.

“You do look so beautiful on your knees, Atasshi.”  He can hear her cooing at him over the blood rushing in his ears.  “So perfect.  Such a _good boy_ you are, Ataashi.”

Tears leak out of tightly closed eyes.  ‘How does she know to call me that?  WHY IS SHE CALLING ME A GOOD BOY?’ his mind screams as his body reacts to the triggers.

His hands scrabble at her belt until she gets the hint.  Daring to remove her hand from his head she uses both to unbuckle, pulling the belt all the way out and draping it over her shoulders.  He doesn’t wait for her to free her cock, yanking down on the waistband.  He takes a moment to admire it, eyes glazing over at the length and girth.  Freeing her balls he starts there.

Nipping and sucking at the hairy sacks he lavishes them attentively.  Her hands are back in his hair as he sucks one into his mouth, moaning around the fullness.  Swirling his tongue around to the back as he sucks he can taste the juices squirting out of her.  He tries to pull back in surprise but is only allowed enough room to switch sides, mouth once more full.

She doesn’t let him up for more than a quick gasp of air until her first orgasm races through her.  Her juices flowing freely from her hole as she pushes him back.  When he tries to get to his feet another set of hands press down on his shoulders.

Working together they force him down on her thick cock, not letting up until he starts to gag. 

“Good boy, Ataashi,” she mewls, squirming in her seat.

“Yes.  Very good boy, indeed,” another voice murmurs.  Familiar hands stroke over his shoulders as he bobs up and down on her cock, slicking it up with spit.  “My good boy, Kadan.”  Those hands, those wretched missed hands, trail down his back to his harness.  Making quick work he’s freed of both the leather and butt plug.  Meaty fingers covered in oil prep him hastily before he’s picked up and turned around.

He doesn’t dare raise his gaze.  A barrel of a torso in front of him, soft belly perfect for laying on.  Strong arms help steady him as he’s lowered onto Herah’s spit-slicked cock.  He can’t help the fresh tears as he finally looks up at the Bull’s face.

His eye’s not on his face.  It’s locked onto where the Inquisitor spears into him.  He only raises his gaze once Dorian’s fully seated on her lap, his taut belly bulging from her girth.  At his mage’s whine he meets his eyes.

“You be a good boy for Herah now, Kadan,” he instructs, twisting his nipples harshly.  The pain causes Dorian to squeeze as he’s lifted up.  When she slams him back down the Bull rearranges his legs so they’re on either side of hers.  Taking the hint she spreads her legs wide for a better view.  Hissrad steps back to enjoy the show.

The look in his eye, the set of his jaw, prompts Dorian to behave.  To be a good boy.  So he tentatively leans back, shaking hands reaching back to grasp onto her horns.  Feeling her breasts rubbing against his back has him flinching until she starts fucking up into him in earnest.

The slapping of flesh against flesh, heavy panting and high keening drowns out everything.  All he knows is the feel of smooth horns under his hands, sweat running down his back, weights swinging against his chest.  The burn of her cock stabbing at his prostrate.  The air punched out of his lung at each thrust. 

And then there’s suddenly a wall of heat in front of him.

Gently he’s pulled forward.  A whine escapes when he’s forced to let go of his support.  But Hissrad’s, his Bull’s, there.  Too tall away to grab his horns.  Just close enough to brace his hands on his thighs before his mouth is claimed by another large cock.

Nothing exists now past the two points, the two cocks rocking him back and forth.  All there is is his Amatus fucking his mouth while his Inquisitor pumps into his ass.  The smooth motion lulls him into pleasant stupor.    The stretch of ass and mouth a satisfying burn, bitter fluid on the back of his tongue when he’s allowed to gasp for air.

Voices start murmuring above him.  They all jumble together when a sharp crack reaches his ears, a burning line spreading down his back.  Another strike, another thrust.  Strike after strike from the folded belt keeps him from focusing on anything other than the pain and pleasure. 

Hand gentle touch along the raised welts as they speak of the Qun gathering. 

Thick fingers combing through his hair as potential roles for their mage is discussed.

Seed flooding his insides from both ends as the word Tamassran passes over him.  Two sets of hands stroking reverently over his curved stomach.   

Only once the plug’s reinserted and the harness fastened is he allowed to slip from her lap onto the floor.  Head spinning he gladly kneels, body bracketed by powerful legs.  He has to rest his head against his Amatus’ leg, hands curling around his knees.  Behind him Herah leans forward to starch lightly at his scalp.

A moan escapes him.  Another hand trails along his face, wiping up stray strands of come.  When they thrust past his parted lips he obediently sucks them clean.

“Look at me, Kadan.”

“Open your eyes, Ataashi.”

Glossy eyes flutter open at the commands.  Above him Hissrad’s soft cock is just out of reach.  He’s denied, gently pushed back down when he attempts to straighten enough to suckle on the head.  Soothing hands calm him down, fear of being punished leaving him whimpering.

“None of that now, Kadan.  You’re okay, you did so well for us.”  Hissrad’s hands cup his face, forcing him to focus.  Light kisses are peppered over his face.  Tongue forcing its way in when he sighs in relief.

“Very good.  So perfect, Ataashi.”  A cool cloth removes the sweat clinging to his back.  It drops to the floor as she reaches out, wrapping her hand around his throat and pulling him back.  Free of his Amatus’ mouth he accepts her kisses, submitting to her demand for authority. 

Dizzy from lack of air he can barely hear the order.  A squeeze at his throat and he’s released.  He slumps against Hissrad’s legs once more.  His hands rub up and down those wonderful thighs.  A hand cupping his chin directs his eyes up, looking at the scarred face of his Amatus through his eyelashes.

“You be good for me and not say a word about me, Kadan.  Be good and I’ll come back for you.  How does that sound?”

He can no longer tell if the adoration he sees in that single eye is real or not.  But that doesn’t matter.  It’s directed at him.  “I’ll be a good boy,” is the whispered promise.

“Not a word.”  Lazy nod as his thumb gently rubs at his beauty mark.  “You’ll come to Adaar’s room every night, the two of you mourning my betrayal.  You do as she says, keep her bed warm for me, and once the Qun has finished preparing to put everyone in their place I’ll put you in yours.”

“Yes, the Iron Bull.”

The scraping of the chair behind him doesn’t startle him as much as the belt swinging down onto his sore ass.  He jerks against the solid wall that is Hissrad’s legs.  The hand on his face prevents him from turning his hurt gaze back to Herah.

“That’s not his name, Ataashi.”  Her voice is sharp as another blow lands on the other cheek.

“Not a word, Hissrad!”

_Crack! Crack!_

“Try again, Ataashi.”

The blows drive him up.  Nuzzling against the stirring cock he breathes, “I’ll be a good boy for you, Amatus.”

“And for Adaar.” 

He’s allowed to mouth at the heavy balls when his Amatus’ cock curls up out of reach.  “I’ll be good for Adaar…” he trails off uncertain if he’s used the proper name.

_Crack!  Crack!_

“Herah!  I’ll be perfect for Herah!”

The two manhandle him up and onto the bed.  He’s stripped of his harness, plugs, and cage.  The entire night’s spent pulling promises of obedience and cries of ecstasy from his lips.  His balls are emptied as his ass and stomach fills.

'~*~’

When they finally allow him to rest the only words to pass his lips are the ones they give him.

'~*~’

The next morning finds him preening in the mirror as Herah buckles the straps of his harness.  A gasp as she pulls it too tight.  Pulling away he mock glares until she pulls him forward by his nipple clamps.  She snaps her fingers and points to her crotch.

Obediently he knees down and proceeds to lick clean the mess his Amatus left between her legs.  The taste of his Amatus’ seed and his Herah’s juices mixed together dances over his tongue.  Even once she was cleaned he kept laving at her thighs, hesitantly skirting around her folds.

“No, no, Ataashi.  That’s okay.”  She pulls him up, shoving her tongue deep, moaning at the flavor of herself and Hissrad.  “I’m clean enough.  Now help me dress.”

Going to her wardrobe he picks out her outfit, dressing her in the simples straps to hold her breasts in place.  Sturdy smalls keep her tucked away before having her step into a billowy pair of pants.  Kneeling down boots are quickly laced and tied neatly. 

He doesn’t rise until she speaks.  “Go on, now.  Get dressed.”  He’s nudged towards his discarded robes still where he left them.

“Remember,” her voice rumbles as walks over to him.  Nimble fingers straighten his robes.  “Not a word.”

He meets her eyes.  Body thrumming from the phantom feel of hands pulling orgasm after orgasm from him. 

“Not a word, Herah.”  He seals the promise with a kiss, moaning as she grabs a double handful of his tender ass.  “I’ll be good for Herah and Amatus,” he breathes between them when they part.

'~*~’

 


End file.
